Graduation
by ElvenPirate41
Summary: Sands' high school graduation is not a particularly fun occasion for him. Rated R for language.


A/N: I just uploaded this again to fix a few spelling errors. I don't own Sands... probably a good thing, because he can get majorly pissy at times. Enjoy, and please don't forget to review on your way out!  
  
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It was hot, really stifling hot in the gym. After all, it was the middle of June, and he along with about a third of the people in the gymnasium was clad in a thick and massive gown in a room painfully devoid of air conditioning.

The class of 1985, just a diploma away from being rid of high school forever.

Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was anxious to just get it over with.

It was so hot that his long dark hair was sticking to the back of his neck in a very uncomfortable way. He moved his head a bit as he slumped in the hard folding chair, trying to discreetly get his hair unstuck. Instead, the ridiculous tassel of his cap whacked him in the eye.

"Fuck," he muttered softly, but not inaudibly. Lisa Samson, who had been forced to sit next to him in all things alphabetical since the seventh grade, turned to look at him strangely. "What?" he said, and she rolled her eyes and directed her attention back to the school superintendent, who was blathering on about something of no interest to him.

It was really a stupid concept, though, the whole cap and gown thing. What moron decided that a dress and an oversized yarmulke with a felt square and a fucking _tassel_ on top was suitable garb for a graduation ceremony?

The salutatorian took the podium and starting talking, never taking his eyes off the three-by-five index cards in his hand. Speeches were so tedious. He, Sands, could have been up there right now. Hell, he could have been valedictorian if he'd wanted. But who wanted that kind of shit? Not he.

He'd taken all the courses reserved for the nerds: advanced chemistry, college psych (now _that_ had been a fun one), calculus, and he had been one of only seven selected to take the new forensics course. He could speak Spanish, French, and Latin more or less fluently, and his German was not to be scoffed at.

But it hadn't been hard. None of it had been difficult. He could do everything they threw at him, but he'd developed a nasty case of senioritis and pretty much stopped doing homework the last semester. A couple of his teachers had actually shown concern over his slipping grades.

"Now, Sheldon," they had said, "You're very bright, and your grades at they beginning of the year were perfect. But you're slipping now; if only you'd apply yourself..."

As if chemistry and Spanish actually required application.

The salutatorian finally shut up and ceded the prestigious podium to the valedictorian, Melissa Edgewood. She was basically the quintessential teen, kind of like da Vinci with lip gloss and designer clothes. She was pretty, popular, smart, athletic, adored by her parents and praised by her teachers; more or less perfect.

But Sands knew for a fact that she had banged some friend of her brother while plastered at a party, and that she'd stuffed her bra till the ninth grade. It was really amazing what people would let slip when only "that Sheldon freak" was around to overhear.

Freak? Hah. Just because he preferred to wear black and apparently had "violent tendencies" didn't make him any kind of freak. He hadn't _really_ meant to break that bastard kid's wrist.

Melissa was talking about how hard she knew everyone had worked all year when a sentence suddenly popped into Sands' head.

_I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve._

He couldn't recall where the sentence was from, or who had said it, but he liked it. It was a bit of a mindfuck, but it was a compliment if you really thought about it. If he was up there talking, he decided, that would be his speech. Just that. It would be a lie, of course. He hated them all and they deserved every nasty thought that crossed his mind. But it would be entertaining nonetheless.

Sands cracked his knuckles and tried to fight off his burning need for a smoke. If this ceremony didn't end soon he was going to go fucking insane.

_'And we wouldn't want that to happen,'_ a lazy voice commented.

_'Shut up,'_ he thought, looking around a bit at his classmates to pass the time. There was bitchy Fiona Clement. Gorgeous but bitchy, or so he'd thought ever since she'd made all these remarks about him in front of her friends and then walked away laughing. So one day he'd said something to her in junior year – he couldn't remember what – and she had responded with a "Fuck you." He'd said, "Okay, my place or yours?" and she'd tossed him a "Creep" along with a death stare as she and her posse stalked away. What a bitch. She had nice tits, though. Maybe that was what he'd said to her.

And there was old Alfred Krimp. The kid had been in his chem and forensics classes, and seriously looked like someone out of "Revenge of the Nerds." Thick glasses, shitty teeth, the whole enchilada. At least Al was a relatively decent person, and pretty damn smart, too. He could have been valedictorian too (if not for Sands, he couldn't beat Sands), but valedictorians were always one of the Beautiful People, Sands figured. Nerds just didn't look good in a big picture in the yearbook.

He turned the other way to see Randy Parson a little ways down the row in front of him. That fucking jock's name made him laugh like all hell. It was like being named Horny Priest or something. Parson must have noticed him staring with a bemused expression, for he turned around and glared with narrowed eyes. Sands smiled and flipped the fucker off.

Ah, and there was that crazy girl Cassandra Urban. For some reason she talked to him all the time, or tried to, at least. She'd come up to him in the halls and shit and ask him what was up. He'd usually ignore her or say something in appeasement, but sometimes he'd toss an answer like "My dick" just to throw her off. Yet she didn't seem thrown. Couldn't she tell he just wanted to be left alone?

Sands didn't bother looking into the bleachers. His parents weren't there. _Ma's probably utterly wasted, and Daddy Dearest is most likely throwing a fit over something or other,_ Sands thought, debating whether the teachers would notice if he whipped out a cigarette and had a smoke right then and there. Yeah, they probably would. _Oh well._ He had a pretty strong will. He could wait.

Maybe.

Melissa Edgewood finished her speech with the traditional "Congratulations, Class of Insert-Year-Here! We did it!" and was met by the traditional applause. Sands cracked his knuckles again and examined a hangnail on his left index finger. He tilted his head to see if it was worth ripping off and was obliged to peel the goddamn tassel off his face again.

Then the long slow drone of names began. _You know, chanting while wearing robes is somewhat cultist,_ he mused as the band kicked in with Pomp and Fucking Circumstance. In a supremely bored tone, the vice-principal read out all the A through M names as the students filed by.

"Carrie Alfonse." _Bitch._ "Jonathan Ark." _Asshole. _"Michael Ark." _Asshole part two. _"Leslie Benjamin." _Bitch. _"Alison Brent." _Slut..._

So the list went on and on, until all the bitches, sluts, and assholes had been duly sorted into their respective sections of Sands' mind. Then he and the other half of the students rose as the principal took over to read out N through Z. Her tone was bright and shiny and really pissed him off.

"Adam North." _Fucking emo kid._ "Julia Null." _Poser punk._ "Maria Oro." _Whore._ "Randy Parson." _Horny Priest..._

He inched forward until finally his name was called. He stepped onto the makeshift stage, obtained his little bit of paper, shook a few limp hands, and trudged back to his rickety folding chair. The principal chirped cheerfully along until they had all been Pomped and Circumstanced, and then the band stopped the god-awful song at last. The principal – Sands had no idea what her name was – started talking.

"You are about to enter the real world," she sang, bleached teeth glinting. "For the past twelve years of school you have been surrounded by your peers—"

He stopped listening. What peers? If fuckmook Randy Parson was his peer then ritual suicide was certainly the only option he had. So, he flicked at his tassel a little, and stared at his diploma.

**Sheldon Sands**

it said, in large impressive letters. _I'm going to have to put this someplace where Dad won't spew on it next time he's drunk. Like the ceiling._

His thoughts were interrupted by thunderous applause and a lot of caps being chucked into the air. The students-no-more left their seats to seek out friends and family. Sands was seeking the door and fumbling in his pocket for a lighter when someone came up to him.

"Hey, Sands."

"Oh, hey, Al." A sadly hopeless nerd he was, but he had the good sense to not use Sands' first name.

"What a complete waste of three hours, huh? I was supposed to meet Mort and Kev for some D&D around two; I had no idea this thing was going to last so long." The fucker looked positively stressed over his tardiness. Sands was surprised he wasn't running for the door already.

"Yeah, it was a load of shit. Three hours of my life I'll never get back." He located the lime green lighter and began checking his other pocket for a cigarette. _Don't tell me I'm out..._

"Anyway, I'm going to go see if they're still around. Want to come?"

_And play pretend with you and your little friends? Not on your life._ "Nah, you know, I've got stuff to do." Al nodded. "They'll probably be waiting for you, though, wondering whatever happened to their Dungeon Master."

Al grinned, saying, "Okay, then. I guess I'll see you around." He shoved his glasses up a little and rushed off to what Sands was sure would be a stimulating RPG session.

"Finally," he muttered, finding a cigarette and heading out into the hot afternoon. He lit it and took a nice long drag, immediately feeling better as he blew the smoke out.

He wasn't going home, that much was certain. Maybe he'd go to the library or something. Maybe he'd just wander. There wasn't much of anywhere to go. He'd probably just drive. Or maybe—

"Hi, Sheldon," a voice said. He looked over, already knowing it would be Cassandra. He didn't say anything in response, but just took another drag and leaned back against the wall of the school. She was a decent-looking girl, he'd admit, but nothing to jerk off over. She continued to look at him expectantly.

"What?" he said, wondering what the hell she wanted with him this time.

"I just wanted to catch you before you left," she said, blinking a few times. "Would you sign my yearbook?" she asked friendlily. She held out the thick book and a pen.

Sands exhaled heavily. "If I must," he sighed, sticking the cigarette in the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and taking the pen and book from her. "Where?"

"Next to your picture is fine, I guess." She seemed pleased that she had gotten a response out of him.

He located his picture. He was staring expressionlessly at the camera, not grinning blissfully like everyone else was. He scribbled his name across its corner and shoved it back at her.

"Thanks. Can I sign yours?" Cassandra asked tentatively, looking at him as if she expected him to produce one from under his shitty cap or something, or maybe from inside his robes like one of Al's imaginary wizard friends.

"I didn't buy one," he said.

"Oh." This seemed to dishearten her slightly. "Why not?"

"Why blow good money on a book full of pictures of people I hate?" he flatly reasoned.

"I guess that makes sense," she said. She made another feeble attempt to spark a conversation. "I didn't see you at prom."

"Did you expect to?" His cigarette was nearly all gone, and he felt somehow cheated. Hopefully he had money for a new pack.

"Not really," she answered. They stood in silence for a few moments.

"Is there something you want?" Sands finally inquired.

"No—no," said Cassandra. "Um... see you later then."

"Bye." She returned inside with a tiny backward glance and he dropped the cigarette butt on the ground.

_'You could probably get her pants off in a second if you put your mind to it,'_ the voice said.

_'Don't want to,'_ he responded. _'She's too damn annoying.'_ He made his way back inside and to the school lobby, where he chucked his cap and gown onto a bench. Then he exited the school for the last time.

Already some of his so-called peers were congregating in the parking lot, showing off their graduation gifts: brand new BMWs and shit like that. Melissa the Valedictorian was walking to one of said BMWs with a guy he knew and despised. His name was Joel, he believed.

"Hey, Sheldon!" Joel called. Sands kept walking. "Hey! I'm talking to you! You nail that Cassandra yet?" He laughed loudly, and Sands was reminded very much of a donkey. "Tell your crackhead mother I said thanks, by the way."

How classic. Sands turned and called, "Whatever, dickweed. Just ask your girlfriend there who she fucked at Ray Whitson's party."

_'Well, you're certainly right. They're not your peers at all. Not even close.'_

_'Damn right.'_ He climbed into his banged-up Chevy and turned the ignition. Loud rock music immediately filled the car, threatening to destroy the duct-taped back window. He pulled out of the parking space, making the car move backwards quickly and stop just before hitting Joel and Melissa. He then shifted into Drive and left the hell pit known as high school for good.

Some day, though, he would be on top. He'd win in the end. He'd be great someday, and finally they all would know that they were never even close.  
  
End.


End file.
